


This Is What I Do

by helens78



Series: Used Books For Adults [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, Community: ds_kinkmeme, Glory Hole, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-16
Updated: 2010-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 07:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/62882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every so often Benton makes his way to an adult bookstore with glory holes in the back.  He'd just like it if one of the men he was blowing happened to be someone he knew, that's all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is What I Do

**Author's Note:**

> For a [ds_kinkmeme](http://ds_kinkmeme.livejournal.com) prompt.

It took Benton a long time to find the right adult bookstore, one with the booths in the back, with the glory holes well-maintained rather than left to the vagaries of time and hurried men. Now that he's found it, he limits his visits; he has no intention of being seen here too often, being caught out.

It's a long way from the consulate anyway, and a very long way from the bars his friends prefer, but better to be safe than sorry.

For the most part the men here are one-timers; Benton has an excellent memory for male members, and he would know a repeat visitor if he saw one.

There are a few, though.

There's the boy who is barely past eighteen, whose cock has a slight downward lean and is fuller at the base than the tip--he pants out curses while Benton sucks him, flattens himself against the wall between them as if he needs the closeness but doesn't know how to get more than this booth, this anonymous wet heat from someone he'll never see.

There's the man with the uncut cock, dark skin, who always comes here smelling of soap; Benton wonders if he's stopping by after a late-night trip to the 24-hour gym just down the block, if he comes here more often than Benton does. For several months, he was the only one whose words and noises made Benton want to reach into his own pants while fellating him.

But then there's the other one--the one with the thick, cut cock, not too long, enough to fill Benton's throat without making Benton think about backing away. Benton can't imagine backing away from him.

When it's him, Benton resents the wall between them, wishes there were a way to remove that wall without removing the anonymity, a way to put his hands on this man's hips and drag him forward, force him to--to _fuck_ Benton's throat, dig his hands into Benton's shoulders and make Benton choke on it.

He fantasizes about all that as he waits, tonight, waits and hopes for the right man to come along.

The first man isn't him; Benton doesn't let his disappointment affect the service he provides. He licks, sucks, draws the moans and appreciative little grunts out of the first man, and when the first man's about to come--Benton can feel his cock swelling, knows the signs well enough--he lifts away, handkerchief at the ready to catch the jets. The first man curses at him, but he should know by now that men in these places often don't care to swallow; at least Benton kept his hand on the man's cock, held him tight while he pulsed into Benton's handkerchief.

In many cases it's self-protection; probably not enough, probably none of it is, short of demanding the use of condoms, but understandable. In Benton's case...

He doesn't want the taste of someone else's come on his tongue, should the right man come along tonight.

Two more, three, and despite the fact that they're all the wrong men, Benton finds himself hard and increasingly desperate as the night goes on. Between men, he leans back against the wall and presses the heel of his hand against his cock, determined not to give in and touch himself yet. It's still early by this particular man's standards; he's rarely in before two, and he always smells of cigarettes and sweat and a little beer--as if he's been near it, but not drinking it himself.

And sure enough, when it's ticked past two and most of the traffic's died down, there's a click from the booth beside him, a whiff of sweat and tobacco, and Benton almost groans as he goes to his knees, popping the button on his jeans as soon as he hits the floor. By the time the man's got his cock through the hole, Benton has his own in hand, stroking rough and fast.

The man on the other side of the wall is always full of manic energy, like whatever he was doing wasn't quite enough to satisfy him, like he's had a hard week at work and wants to work off some of his aggression. He grunts and groans and bites off most of what he says, the syllables tending more toward consonants and occasional single vowels than actual words.

Benton puts his hand around the man's cock and inhales quietly, taking in the scent of him. And then he's swallowing, mouth sliding down around the man's cock, the moan this time coming from Benton, a hum around the other man's skin. The other man groans, too, pushing forward. Benton drops his hand and gets as close to the wall as he can, until his chin and nose are touching it.

Usually this is Benton's show, but with this man it's a dance. It's something they do together.

The man drives in, and Benton tightens his lips, uses his tongue to press up hard against the underside of his cock. When the man draws back, Benton socks hard, tongue flicking over the head of his cock, and as always, it seems to have a profound effect on the man, because he pushes in again, breath hitching, pulse racing--Benton can feel it in the vein at the base of his cock. He tries to lick forward, lick against that pulsepoint, but he can't reach--this damned wall between them, this useless, stupid wall that keeps Benton away from (_who_) what he _needs_ right now--

But there's no point in focusing on the wall, not when the man's cock is hard in Benton's mouth and he's shoving forward like he wants to keep doing this for hours. Oh, yes, Benton could do this for hours, this, here, with _this_ man, this man whose cock he knows as well as he knows his own, whose sounds and grunts and giveaways he's learned over the course of these last few months, the man who gets Benton's cock into his own hand when he's here, on his knees, or when he's at the consulate, taking a moment in the shower to remember what this was like.

_Please_, Benton thinks. He'd say it if his mouth weren't full. _Please. Come for me. Come--_

"Shit," the other man whispers, and Benton tightens his grip on his own cock, tightens his lips around the other man's cock. "I--_fuck_, you ready?"

In answer, Benton sucks harder. His hand speeds up. The man groans out loud and pushes in once--twice--again, and again, and finally he's slamming into Benton's mouth, slamming against the wall, and he comes in long, flooding bursts, one after another after another into Benton's desperate, hungry mouth.

When it's over, Benton keeps licking, licking until the other man's cock is drawn away. He hasn't come yet this time; he's still too aroused to think clearly. He chases the man's cock back through the hole, lips pressed through it, tongue searching, and--

\--and there's another groan, and the man drops down to meet him there, tongue just long enough to reach Benton's through the hole. It isn't a kiss, isn't anything _like_ a kiss, but it's somehow exactly what Benton needed. He comes with a strangled groan, the jets hitting the wall and dripping over his hand, and he sits back, panting, trying to catch his breath.

Benton has never looked through these holes, has never wanted to before this man, but now--if he's still there, if he's watching, if _he's_ looking, maybe--maybe tonight's the time to break that rule and...

He turns away, digging his handkerchief out of his pocket, cleaning himself up. There are conventions here, standards of behavior, and trying to find out if the other man is who Benton has always suspected he is would be breaking not just those standards but a certain amount of trust. The trust he carries with this man is precious, something Benton isn't willing to betray. And if he did, if he's right, then what? More meetings like this, clandestine, neither one of them willing to meet the other's eyes? Or--and this thought is one Benton can't stand--or the other man goes home and never comes back, and Benton never even gets to fantasize this way again.

That's much more likely.

He waits until he hears the click from the other man's booth, then finishes getting his cock put away, getting his clothes put in order. By the time he's done, there's another man waiting his turn, and Benton's nothing if not polite. He takes to his knees and gets to work.

_-end-_


End file.
